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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937698">lavender tendencies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysquared/pseuds/gaysquared'>gaysquared</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>808 Broadway, Angst, Background Lucius/Bitsy, Character Study, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Drinking, Everybody Lives, Fix-It of Sorts, Heteronormativity, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, Lesbian Sara Howard, Multi, Past Sara/John, Sara and Laszlo’s friendship, Shame, Smoking, Stream of Consciousness, brief mention of underage sex (16/17)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:55:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,753</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937698</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysquared/pseuds/gaysquared</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara reflects on her night with John, and her seeming inability to imagine a future with him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sara Howard/Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>lavender tendencies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heyyyy guys. After the show decided to canonize John/Sara like... that... I decided to write about Sara experiencing comphet, bc I’ve always seen her as a lesbian and also I’m gay and I said so. </p><p>Except I also made myself kind of sad, because I’ve been there and comphet sucks. </p><p>I basically ignored everything about the season 2 finale here, so Marcus is alive, even though I don’t mention him. Also, bc John would NEVER (NEVER!) cheat on his fiancée because he knows exactly how painful that is, he broke it off with Violet before sleeping with Sara, so she’s out of the picture. </p><p>Also while I discuss Sara’s childhood, I don’t make much allusion to her father’s suicide because the show and book place those events at wildly different times in her life and this is a bit of a mix of book and show canon for me. I’m imagining in this scenario it occurred in between preparatory school and college for her. </p><p>The underage warning is for a brief description of a consensual sexual encounter Sara had with another teenager when she was maybe 16/17.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Milly’s chatting had become a comforting hum over the din of carriages and street vendors from below, the windows shoved open far as they could go to combat the stuffy heat late August had refused to abate on 808 Broadway. Milly had a habit of talking when she was bored, which normally Sara didn’t mind, especially seeing as Milly often didn’t truly expect her to <em>listen</em>; but with Bitsy gone several days a week for the planning of her wedding, and no current leads on any open investigations, Milly was left to entertain herself with chatter in the flushed warmth of the office.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara sat at her desk, under the pretense of reading a letter come all the way from Britain requesting their services; that in itself had been quite a surprise, and, Sara half-believed, a possible hoax; but her attention wandered so easily she knew she could hardly claim to be ingesting the words before her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you think they’d ever open a Worth store in New York?” Milly was saying, having folded up that morning’s newspaper into something unrecognizable in order to fan herself lightly, already seated under the window facing North, reclining easily into one of the office chairs. “He’s got one in London and all that. I don’t see why he wouldn’t open one here. Oh, but I did hear wealthy ladies can simply ring the House up on the telephone now to make their orders! Still, you think he’d want to show off his newest pieces in a place like New York, wouldn’t you?” She sighed, clearing a bit of sweat away from her forehead. “There’s plenty of rich ladies in New York. I’ve heard of ladies who order twenty gowns at a time from him! Can you imagine that? Twenty new dresses at once!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara let slip an amused smile, fingers rubbing at the paper in her hand until they’d worn a sweaty divot into the simple card-stock. She wanted a smoke, she realized, tension shooting up her palm as if to confirm this. <em>When I’m done with this letter,</em> she thought, stubbornly refusing to admit she likely would not be completing that task anytime soon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her father’s ring bumped against the card-stock, a surprising sensation, and she glanced to look at the gold-cast signet, the face black as onyx and inscribed with her father’s initials. A sudden pang of guilt wound around her spine as she remembered a recurring anxiety that’d been plaguing her the last few weeks.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>I can’t believe I left that </em>on<em> me while in a man’s bed.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The thought made her face go sour as she was once again forced to contemplate that her deceased father had, in some fashion, witnessed this act. Not that she gave much credit at all to spiritualism; but she would be lying if she claimed she didn’t think some part of her father lived on in that ring. Why would she wear it, otherwise?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Milly was prattling on about how in the world someone could be busy enough, even with society engagements, to wear twenty new dresses all in some short time. Sara thought Milly should meet some of the society girls <em>she</em> grew up with; if there was a way to do so, they’d find it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Sorry, father,</em> Sara mused, cheeks coloring. <em>I’m afraid I might not at all be the young woman you desired me to become.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Oh, she was just as independent as he’d always dreamed, and she was glad for it. She’d certainly lived up to his expectations in that respect. He’d be proud of her business, she knew, and that thought often gave her the strength she needed to make it through another long night of sorting through documents for a case; if he could see her then, he’d be proud.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This, though...</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara felt her stomach turn, and sighed into the thick air, her worn leather oxfords chuffing against the floor. It wasn’t that she hadn’t enjoyed herself; she thought she had, truly, but... it had been as if from afar, like she was not in her body but floating above the two of them as they moved. Her body <em>felt</em>, and of what she recalls that feeling had been pleasurable; but now as she grasps at the memory, she realizes her full recollection of the event has started to blur and dim. It was the details, mainly, that left her quickly; everything else seemed to remain just fine. But shouldn’t such a thing be so memorable she could recall any precise moment, and only a few weeks afterward? Shouldn’t it?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her heart surged painfully, and she grimaced at the feeling. Poor John. He deserved so much, and yet... well, she had warned him, after all. Done her best to coax him away from this endeavor. She recalled what he’d said to her at the engagement party; that she chose to be alone. But was it a choice, really?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Of course it was difficult being alone, even in the fashion she was. He wasn’t wrong on that end. She understood it, of course she did; of course it could be isolating, painful, numbing; but it had always been a price worth paying. Was that so wrong, after all? How could it be, when she’d worked this hard, come this far, all the way from a god-damned sanatorium to owning her own business; and on <em>Broadway</em>. A business that, as she often remembered with an icy pang, would likely immediately become the de-facto property of her husband, if she were to marry; even if her wages and physical estate would not.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But he was right, still. She had been lonely. It was nice, after all, to feel wanted; Sara was not so prideful that she could not admit that. To not feel like an outcast, an observer watching the world through a thick sheet of glass, if only for a moment. His arms had offered that; or so she’d thought. Truly, she saw then; that glass had been right there, stuck stubbornly between them, even as he gave himself over to her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She loved him dearly. She truly did. But she’d known for some time now that she could never love him the way he really needed to be loved, and pretending she could would be doing a terrible disservice to him. She’d told him that, and long ago. But still, here she was, sitting in her office and swimming in a gripping shame.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She looked up to see Milly still chatting, having moved to actually reading the newspaper now, perhaps offhandedly relaying the stories to Sara as she read. Sweat had made the honey-blonde strands of her hair stick delicately to her forehead, and her soft hands held the newspaper nimbly, eyes gone glassy, pink lips moving quickly as she spoke, although Sara wasn’t listening; still caught in the haze of her thoughts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Oh, Sara, </em>she thought. <em>You daft idiot.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’d known since she was a child that she was different; looking back, it wasn’t difficult to tell. The way she’d looked at one of the maids’ little girls, about her age, whenever they played together; it had been ever so slightly more than <em>keen</em>. That child had been her best friend, at least while the girl’smother was in their service, which wasn’t long. Sara never had many friends, but she and Dot would go running through the woods together, dirtying their dresses, their legs pounding at the soft earth until they collapsed amongst the trees and breathed hard, laughing as they lay on the ground.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara would laugh, and laugh, and as they tired themselves out she’d find herself staring intently at Dot’s dark hair, come loose from its braids, wavy tendrils spread across moss and spiky grasses like inky threads; and then her gaze would slip to Dot’s face, the other girl gazing up amongst the trees; and Sara would study her eyelashes, the line of her nose, her lips, the soft angle of her chin. And in that moment, every time, something; <em>something</em>, would grow warm in Sara’s stomach, and very suddenly she’d feel just a slight touch of guilt, as if it had plunked down in a tiny dew droplet from one of the trees above them, and onto her head, spreading out over her body in a slow, ominous wave.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She tried to recall if she’d felt that flutter; that warmth that had drawn a line up through her stomach and into her chest; looking at John as they lay together, but her mind came away blank. It felt like she hadn’t even been there.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And, her memory reminded her; it was nothing like the time, long ago, when she’d finally convinced her father to let her go away to school like all the other wealthy young girls did; all her life she’d either taken lessons at home or at a daily private institution, small and infinitely boring, just down the road from Rhinecliff. <em>Just for the year, father, please, and then if it goes well I can go again and if it doesn’t I’ll stay home and we’ll take another governess to finish my teaching. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2">Sara had always been a very adept arguer, even before she could read. Her father had told her she’d make a fantastic lawyer.</p><p class="p2">Preparatory School hadn’t been nearly as interesting as Sara had imagined, of course, and she had felt a mighty disdain for most of her instructors, but the other girls were nicer to her than she’d expected. They were careless, and thoughtless, and often a little rude, but never to her.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One of them was the daughter of a businessman who knew her father well. She’d seen the man; mustached and deeply invested in his own importance; more than once at her father’s dinner parties. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His daughter had been a pretty summer marigold, a year older than Sara and a bit of a gossip. She’d taken it upon herself to teach Sara everything she knew about the secret, scandalous things people did in high society, and Sara liked her company enough to take a little patronizing, which; perhaps that said a lot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara still recalled the night they were supposed to be cleaning one of the dormitories while everyone else ate their supper, although she can’t remember what they had done to deserve the punishment. All she knew was they had begun to joke, ignoring their task in favor of laughing together and dancing and pulling at each other’s hair.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shortly after, Sara was led into one of the dormitory closets, her companion still giggling; and inside the girl had smiled in the dark, so warm and beautiful Sara had thought she might begin to glow—And then, just like that, their hands were on each other, and after a soft, ghosting kiss to Sara’s collar, she’d touched Sara with deft and no doubt experienced fingers, hands roaming idly and then full of purpose all at once. Sara’s body had lit up, curling into her companion, legs trembling as the strings of her muscles pulled taught, her friend puffing hot breath against her neck. She’d never felt more like a body and a beast at the same time, alive and tangible, heart beating wild and insistent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara had, ultimately, decided not to return to Preparatory School the next year.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So, yes, Sara knew she was different; even as she tried to shake herself from her reverie, the feeling of displacement stuck, her face flushing hard. Fingers itching for a cigarette more than ever, she puffed out a long breath, resigning herself again to finishing that damn letter, which had gone creased and damp in her hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was from one Mrs. Grose, which was about as far as Sara got before her mind began to wander again. She’d tried to follow the words, truly; but the heat was in her head and she wanted soft smoke filling her lungs and she thought of John.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the end, regardless of her own pathology or not, she had hurt John, again, and very deeply. Admitting she could never be with him had been just as agonizing as she had imagined, and yet extraordinarily simple; just like that, it was done, and John, after minimal debate, had turned to look pensively out the window, gone silent with thought or emotion or god knew what. She still wasn’t sure if their friendship would ever recover, and her only consolation was that, as Laszlo had told her, he did not appear to take to drink again, at least not for more than a single night directly after the event.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">On this occasion Cyrus had been kind enough to turn him away by the time he had tipsily stumbled into the Oyster Saloon, and called him a cab for East 17th Street, where he could be looked after by the only friend with which he seemed to have been currently on good terms. There had been no recursions into any sort of imbibing since then, or so had been reported to Sara.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">John had, reportedly, been spending more time with Laszlo again, though; and, honestly, Sara vastly preferred this to him seeking the company of a brothel. Still, it made for embarrassingly frequent awkward encounters whenever Sara came to see Laszlo herself. John would often quickly excuse himself, heading straight for the ornate front door of Laszlo’s home, hat and coat hastily scooped up and shoes half-unbuttoned. Laszlo had tried to assure her he would be fine if given enough time, but Sara still worried.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A light <em>ding</em> shook Sara from her thoughts, and she looked to see Milly getting up; to greet the postman, she realized, looking at her pocket watch. He always came at the same time each afternoon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She sighed, admitting defeat and depositing the letter on her desk, glancing at the envelope to see the return address listed “Bly Manor” and “Essex,” and she hummed in mild curiosity at this. Deftly; an effect of years of practice; she sprang open her cigarette case with one hand, plucking one out easily with the other. One match later; struck perhaps a bit too harshly as an expression of her frustration; and the first inhale was divine. Just as she’d expected; and as she savored the feeling with a greedy ardency, Milly strode easily back into the office, arms scooped around a stack of letters.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quite the stash today,” Milly offered, struggling to deposit them all on a desk facing the far wall, and Sara dutifully repressed her amusement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“A favorable or a poor omen for us, do you think?” Sara mused, clearing a few fly-away strands of hair from her face as she puffed on her cigarette. At first, Milly simply shook her head, sorting through the mail with an impossible efficiency as she always did; Sara was at a loss for how she managed it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Summarily, after of moment of shuffling envelopes, Milly turned and said, “Favorable, I do hope. Let’s see, these seem the most pressing—“ she held a much smaller stack of letters now, approaching Sara’s desk with a slow stride as she attempted to read the sender information of the top most piece, her skirts swaying with movement. “Oh, look at this, a city council-member!” Sara watched her eyes alight with curiosity, the younger woman placing the rest of her small stack onto Sara’s desk as she plucked away the letter from the top and quickly began to tear into it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh?” Sara asked, doing her best to seem interested, if only for Milly’s sake; it wasn’t her fault she was so otherwise occupied. “What district?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Milly shook her head as she pulled out the paper inside and began to read, stray curls swinging against her cheeks. “I’m not sure, I only know I’ve seen his name before. Ah, let’s see...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara rocked back into her chair, heels catching on the wooden floorboards as she did so. She closed her eyes lightly, excusing her behavior as a way to give Milly a moment to read without Sara asking any unnecessary questions. The younger woman hummed as she scanned the letter, never comfortable with quiet; although Sara didn’t mind, as she realized momentarily it was a song she quite liked, and hadn’t heard for some time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Whenever her mother had been well enough to be seen; which was not very often; Sara would insist on climbing up next to her in her large, ornate bed, curling in close to her mother’s sickly body, yellow floral-patterned sheets bunched up between them. That song would sing out tinny and bright from the phonograph, at the time something that had seemed impossibly novel; and when it would end, dissolving into an unbearable crackle, her mother would say, “oh, my darling girl, would you go and put that one back on? I’m afraid I couldn’t move even if I wished.” And so Sara would clamber her skinny, sharp-elbowed adolescent body out of her mother’s bed to reset the small cylinder into the machine, and the room would fill with triumphant brass once again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sara?” Milly asked, leaning in further onto the desk than before.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara blinked, realizing she had faded away for a moment, and swung her chair forward, meeting the ground with a harsh <em>clack</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I apologize, Milly; it’s so easy to get lost in one’s thoughts in this heat. What’s the content of that letter, then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Milly simply nodded, taking the absent-minded interruption in stride, and said, “The Councilman claims his daughter has been; well, has been kidnapped by the church of Christian Science.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara felt exasperation rise up in her throat, and tampered it down by bringing her cigarette to her lips again, leaving her exhale long and deliberate. “I suppose it would be too optimistic to presume the girl is underage.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Milly grimaced in sympathy at this, and relented, “No, miss, she’s twenty-two.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course she is,” Sara groused slightly, clearing her throat. “Well, he should know there’s nothing we can do if she’s joined one of any number of these novel religious movements of her own free will.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course, but he does explain perhaps a worrying complication.” Milly breathed out, shaking her head and folding the letter back up in order to hand it to Sara. “She’s a diabetic, miss.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Ah</em>. Sara took the letter easily, moving to put out her cigarette in the nearby silver ashtray. “And as the Christian Science movement famously decries any use of modern medicine, I’d hazard a guess that presents some particular challenges.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Exactly,” Milly confirmed as Sara began to unfold the letter herself. “The girl has already lost her vision in one eye due to her illness. Her father worries how she may deteriorate further if she continues to refuse medical intervention because of her, ah; newly found beliefs.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara studied the letter carefully, a bit saddened to see the ardent and honest concern of a parent laid out before her in such detail, and in such a state of helplessness. “I doubt there’d be much we could do. But we could look into it, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll add it to the correct pile, then,” Milly said, flashing a smile as she held out her hand to receive the letter back. Sara gave it to her rather gratefully, a pulse of discomfort wrapping around her skull as an oncoming headache made itself known.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let’s finish the rest later, Milly. Bitsy’s supposed to be—“ she stopped as she spied; out of the corner of her eye, and alerted further by an abrupt snort and clomping of hooves; a black hansom that had only just pulled up to the entrance down bellow, the cabbie dismounting after a moment to help his passenger. “—coming in soon.” Sara quickly recognized the dark top of Bitsy’s head as she stepped down onto the pavement, her arms laden with packages and parcels. <em>Oh my</em>, she thought, and looked back to Milly, who was peering out of the window as well now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I suppose the wedding planning must be going... well, then?” Milly let out a short, confused laugh, then straightened and shook her head. “I’m going to help her. We’ll be up in a moment.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before Sara could protest; if she’d had the presence of mind to have bothered to; Milly was striding out of the room, just as Sara heard the front entrance open and Bitsy’s voice begin to call out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry if I’m late!” she yelled, accent thicker than usual. “In my defense, my ma can be very particular—“ she quieted slightly, and she said, “ah, hiya Milly. Can you just get this one for me? There, and then; yeah, just—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara couldn’t help but give a small chuckle of amusement. As dry as work could become when they had few clients, those two certainly kept her entertained.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">The office door swung open shortly, </span>Milly traipsing in and followed closely behind by her companion. “Afternoon, Miss,” Bitsy said, taking a large breath and quickly relieving herself of her cargo by dumping most of it rather unceremoniously on a settee near the far wall. “Hotter than hell out there! I told my ma I’d just about faint if we stayed out one second longer,” she collapsed with a huff on the settee next to her packages, taking off her hat to fan herself with lightly, “but there she was goin’ on about the specifics of finding the perfect ribbon to go on the dress, and how it has to match the veil, and gee, we’re out schleppin’ around for another hour.”</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Milly shot Sara an amused smile, placing the two packages in her arms on the desk with the mail, and Sara couldn’t help but return a soft grin.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nevertheless, Bitsy,” Sara said, clearing her throat slightly and turning her head to look at her dark-haired companion once again. “We’re happy you’re here, wedding woes and all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bitsy waved her hand, sitting up somewhat and crossing her ankles. “It’s no ordeal, my ma just keeps me guessin.’ Besides, I got you fine ladies a little somethin.’” At this, Milly advanced closer with curiosity, and Sara watched as Bitsy reached over to one of the smaller bags she’d deposited on the settee, tipping the contents to reveal a heap of wrapped sweets, and the sugary smell hit Sara’s nose immediately. “I got molasses taffy, some of those butterscotch rolls you like so much, Sara, and some penny candy to boot. Go on, now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Millie broke out into a grin, thanking Bitsy eagerly and reaching done to snap up some of the wrapped molasses pulls into her hand. Sara held out her own to accept the Reed’s Rolls, finding she was quite grateful for Bitsy’s little gift. There weren’t many sweets she liked, but the ones she did she could never get enough of. Besides, she could do with a saccharine little distraction at the moment.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you, Bitsy,” she said mildly, although she was sure her smile conveyed notably more gratitude than her voice allowed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The three women chatted for some time, Sara making smaller contributions and poising open questions as her companions carried the bulk of the conversation. Sara still felt that displacement, that sense of wrongness, of existing just a little outside of herself; but it had abated slightly with Bitsy’s arrival and company, especially upon finding herself privy to the woman’s vulnerable excitement and inner worries as the conversation progressed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think we’ll be such a pair, you know, and I just keep tellin’ myself how right that feels and it gets a little easier to keep my wits when my pa says somethin’ bout who’ll attend and what family to invite and all that,” Bitsy said as Sara swallowed the last, flimsy piece of her butterscotch hard candy, setting aside the rest for later.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And you’re right on that one, Bits,’” Milly interjected, leaning slightly over the chair she’d grabbed to situate herself in between Bitsy and Sara. “You two look so perfect together. I can just see you running around the house, getting a goodbye kiss before you’re both scurrying off for work. Gee-wiz, I’m happy we’re keeping you after the wedding!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bitsy laughed, shaking her head. “You’re only keepin’ me ‘cause we’ll be too poor for only one of us to keep workin’, but you’re right. I’d miss you two ladies too much anyhow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara smiled brightly at the thought, silently admitting to herself she thought the very same of her coworkers. “You do go well together, Bitsy. I couldn’t have imagined a better match myself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, you’ll find your own one day, Miss,” Bitsy said, waving her off with a smile. “There’ll be a beau who’ll look good on your arm eventually, even if you don’t wear no white dress.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps so,” Sara allowed, voice going quiet and soft, but Bitsy and Milly were still too consumed by the ever-evolving topics of the upcoming wedding to notice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bitsy and Lucius really did look like they belonged together, and while the thought brought Sara joy, it also tinged her tired perspective with a bit of melancholy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The morning after she’d spent the night with John, he’d revealed to her that just the day before, he’d told Violet in no uncertain terms that however he cared for her, he could not marry her; the engagement was off. At those words, Sara’s heart had started up, a confusing staccato pulsing in her ears. John had leaned in with all the adoration in the world in his eyes and disclosed that he would choose to be with Sara in an instant, should she say the word. <em>That</em> was the moment she had realized, she thought, as her stomach had dropped with a horrible weight, making her suddenly nauseous and panic-stricken.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She could not ever imagine truly being with him. When she tried to picture it; even without a wedding band, coming home to a man; even if that man were John; greeting her with a kiss, sharing her days and her bed... she felt sick. So suddenly sick that it scared her in a way she could not describe. When she tried to imagine a husband, a good man to take care of her, all she could see was fuzzy hair and a blank, smooth face devoid of features. When she tried to imagine John in their place, even his features would begin to blur and distort until they became wholy unrecognizable. What should have been a joyous and hopeful visualization of love and devotion without fail warped into some sort of ghastly, feverish nightmare of confused displacement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She had waited until Libby Hatch’s case had hit its note of finality, closure finally coming to them, to tell John that she could not continue even the idlest of dalliances, no matter how she loved him. The few weeks that had passed since had done little to dull her anxiety and mental turmoil.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll be holdin’ his hand ‘til he’s a curmudgeonly old lunkhead,” Bitsy said, smiling. “I can just see it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still feeling sick, Sara felt tears; ones she realized had long been pressing at her; threaten to spill, clouding her vision as her face went hot with the tight clench of shame. She really was a lost cause, a hopeless case; and she better make her peace with it.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">___________</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara and Laszlo had come to the habit of taking tea together on certain late afternoons; although “tea” could refer to anything from sharing books, to playing piano, to chatting amiably about their respective work. Today, though, they’d simply decided to indulge in Laszlo’s wine cellar a tad early, sharing a bottle of port in Laszlo’s study, where they would not be disturbed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Contented as these occasions usually were for her, today Sara’s throat felt thick, her tongue a dry weight in her mouth. She was perceptive enough to know that Laszlo could sense her disturbance; probably had for weeks now. By some blessing he hadn’t said anything, but his eyes tracked her a little too closely, curiosity flitting in them while something sad; something darker, pressed in at the corner of his mouth.Sara shifted a little uncomfortably in the arm chair where she was seated, Laszlo curled slightly forward on the chair across from her, nursing his own glass, a small side table between them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Laszlo had been discussing certain changes he planned to make to the Institute, but he’d trailed off some time ago, worrying his lip between his teeth. It wasn’t uncommon for them to sit in companionable quiet when they met like this, simply enjoying whatever they’d found to entertain themselves, but Sara wasn’t sure this was quite what that was. Perhaps he was getting impatient after abstaining so long from mentioning her odd behavior and demeanor; knowing him, it would be quite a struggle to hold his tongue. Not that she could blame him; he was making a valiant effort, and his mind evolved around picking things apart, observing them at their most basic parts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Draining her glass quickly, Sara clicked her tongue with a dry smack against the roof of her mouth, and said, “I’ve told you before, Laszlo, of my proclivities.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Laszlo simply nodded, although there was a soft spark of surprise at the forthright quality of her assertion in his dark eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara gave a small sigh, filling her glass again with a deliberate pour of the bottle. “Well,” she said, parting a piece of fallen hair from her face, “where to begin?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And so she told him. She outlined her experiences, childhood and adult alike, and confessed to the panic she’d felt when John had made his intentions clear. With further gravity, as her shame became more apparent, pulsing in her chest, she admitted to her inability to see herself with a man beside her; her confusion, her guilt, and her hopelessness. The words came ringing out clear and matter-of-fact, sounding much more detached than she felt, but still the concern on Laszlo’s face grew, although he kept himself quiet. Every so often Sara would raise an eyebrow at him, expecting him to interject, but he would simply lift a finger from his glass in her direction as if to tell her to continue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When she was done, Sara took another hearty gulp of port, if only to busy her mouth so that she should say nothing further. Lowering her glass, she lifted her eyes again to see Laszlo tilting his head, as if in thought.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He hummed, setting his glass on the table, and folded his hands in his lap, left hand covering the right. “I think,” he said, voice soft, and low, and deliberate, “that such confusions; such uncertainty as how to proceed in one’s relationships; is, perhaps, a common thing among... people like us.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“People like us?” At this, Sara swallowed quietly, not altogether surprised; Laszlo had made allusions to his own tastes before, although he had never said anything quite so outright.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Laszlo nodded, eyes moving away from her face as if satisfied that her reaction was appropriately mild. “Yes. It can be difficult to understand what we might truly want for ourselves.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara blinked, following Laszlo’s suit and setting her glass on the table. With a long exhale, she let herself collapse back into the soft leather of the armchair, the front of her dress wrinkling as she did so. “And what do you envision you might want for yourself, Laszlo?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The man gave a look of surprise, then dipped his head, left hand moving to clutch at his weak arm as if he were holding himself. “As I stated, I think I often do not altogether know.” He cleared his throat, looking up to her reclined form, and began to mirror her, sitting back slightly. “Even when I think I have properly conceptualized the general shape of what I desire in my own future, the details often elude me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That does sound familiar,” Sara said, giving a wry smile; perhaps in her own form of encouragement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Laszlo nodded shortly, false humor playing at his lips. “Yes. I do find there are few definitives in my vision of my life in that aspect.” He swallowed thickly, eyes flitting somewhere far off as they shone with a glassy quality. “I do know now, however, that I do not think I could ever love another woman like I loved Mary.” A sniff; his form softened somewhat, as if he were surrendering to the vulnerable state he had put himself in. “Previous to her, my tastes in women already seemed extremely particular. And now, I... I fear no woman could compare.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara looked at him softly, feeling her face grow hot with the emotion she’d been attempting to subdue for so long. “I think I would find that quite understandable, Laszlo.” He nodded, seeming unmotivated to pursue the line of thinking further, and after a moment of dull, aching contemplation, Sara lifted her glass from the table to take a drink. “But then,” she started, thinking perhaps she could lighten the atmosphere they’d created around themselves, “do you find yourself just as selective in your attention to men? Not as selective as my <em>own</em>, I hope.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She couldn’t help the soft, conspiratorial smile that played at her lips, and the rush of relief she felt when Laszlo himself could not hide a small laugh quickly overwhelmed her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I do not think my taste is <em>quite</em> as selective, no,” he admitted, moving to drink from his glass again as well. “But I do find my interest still very particular. I suppose it all depends.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sara hummed softly, feeling warm and teetering on the edge of emotion. “I think you’re probably quite right,” she admitted. They sat for a moment, the silence much more comfortable then, the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle filling up the moody space. Sara was <em>grateful</em>, she realized.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She sat upright, catching Laszlo’s attention even as he’d become absorbed in his own thoughts, as she moved forward and lifted her glass into the air. “To Mary,” she said. “For no spirit could compare to hers.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Laszlo’s eyes shone soft and bright, gleaming as the sun began to set through the windows of the study. He lifted his glass. “To Mary.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As they drank, once again quiet in mutual understanding, Sara considered herself incredibly lucky that as wretched as her predicament and further predilections might appear at times to her, it was not all so terrible that she would have to suffer it alone.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I feel like this really didn’t go the way I wanted it to, but at least it’s done, lol. </p><p>John’s gonna be just fine, and I think there’s probably more going on with him than Sara realizes; but also the image of him just running out of Laszlo’s house with his shoes half-on is very book!John being his dumb self and I just kind of love it. </p><p>Also, I kind of always hated how the show depicted him getting sober (for a girl) and then all it took was one try and he never relapsed and he’s drinking water at his bachelor party not even tempted. Like. Ah, yes, how realistic. Compared to book!John it’s like... who is this man. What’s happening. People struggle and that’s normal. </p><p>Also, if anybody’s thinking “what about Sara’s experiences in college” I totally understand but upon looking into female colleges of the time (mainly Vassar) I found that damn, they kept those women BUSY. They had essentially no free time, like, ever. So she probably had a lot of crushes on her classmates, but I don’t know if she ever found time to, you know, follow through. </p><p>Also points if you caught the references to the 1898 ghostly tale that inspired the letter she tries (and fails) to read.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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